


Reverse Opinion

by iniquiticity



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Chloe Decker Finds Out, Gen, Season 3, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: Dr. Martin had said, “One way to get a new perspective on something is to share it with someone who you value the opinions of.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is really my first work which i started mid-season 3.
> 
> something that i noticed about season 3 is that lucifer _could_ have shown chloe his wings, but he didn't. So I wanted to explore that a little bit. This is an unfinished snippet, but maybe i could be convinced by a commentariat.

*** 

"Lucifer?"

He heard her voice bouncing off the walls of the penthouse and refilled his glass. One drink, and a second, and then a deep breath and as her footsteps came closer, then quickened when she saw him. He felt them along his back, and kept them close like a clenched muscle. 

_He had been in Dr. Martin’s office complaining about his wings._

_She had said -- “Maybe what your father wants is to keep your focus on the ways he can upset you. Many bullies do it primarily for the attention and to watch the distress on their victims. They see it as a form of control.”_

He heard the door open, and he turned and smiled at her. Strange, about her face, about the lame ponytail and the minimal makeup and the boring black clothes he was sure she got from JC Penney or, if he was feeling ungenerous, a Goodwill. Could you imagine buying someone else's discards? 

And yet he --- 

She was there, even in his Lux orgies. Not actually, of course, being the sad square that she was, but she was in his head, in some way. He didn’t like to think of her in these kinds of circumstances. Even so… 

"So, what's up?" she asked, closing the door behind her and standing next to him. She took a look at his view and looked again. He was the better sight, of course, but… something about how she looked at him. How she looked at the view. 

"Good evening, detective," he said. They had been apart for a few hours, after some case, "Are there things about you that you don't like?" 

_He had said, “Well, he is all-knowing, and all-seeing, in case you forgot, so it’s pretty easy for him to see how pissed off I am about him wrecking my look and sticking this feathered crap on me after I clearly don’t want them.”_

She was taken aback, at first, by the question. She gave him a searching look, trying to decide what to say. 

He took another drink. 

"I'm trying to figure out how you're going to make this about yourself," she said, a little smile at the corner of her mouth.

A huff. "I am going to listen diligently, like good partners do. And anyway,” he spread his arms wide, a grin on his face. “If you don't want to tell me, you know I can't make you." 

“I don’t desire to tell you my psychological problems, so you’d be out of luck either way,” she retorted, and he chuckled at that, just a little. He thought it should have bothered him, that she wouldn’t give it to her. It was hard to tell what the detective wanted, sometimes. Sometimes she even wanted strange things like to spend time with the tiny human. Sometimes she even wanted strange things like to spend time with him. 

“You?” he asked, “Problems? You are one of, if not the, most perfect example of the human form, flawed as they are. Certainly the biggest problems you have are the Douche following you around like a sad puppy and when Maze is cutting a hole in the wall.” 

This time he got a snort of laughter out of her. He had a feeling, and an intense one, at the ability to make her laugh. “Trust me, there’s no lack of baggage here.” 

“Well, I hear that a burden shared is a burden halved.” 

_Dr. Martin had said, “Well, the way to remove that kind of bully from the situation is to no longer give the pleasure of your frustration. Take some kind of enjoyment in your situation or try to see the positive side of things. At least don’t react the way you know he wants you to react.”_

There was another pause, when she sized him up. Then, a big sigh: "Well, I don't like my nose." 

"It's a lovely nose!" 

A scowl. 

"That was diligent listening! Response is a key part of listening! Anyway," he tapped the nose, and watched it wrinkle in distaste. Cute. Cute, of course. "Things about you that are actually terrible. Not something ridiculous like that. You know I don't like a liar." 

_He had said, “So you’re saying, if I somehow try to like these stuffed birds I’m trapped with, it might work?”_

"It's not a lie, it's a bad nose," she scratched the aforementioned very lovely nose, "So. Why do you ask? Is this the part where I ask you about parts of you you don't like? And you get to the point of the conversation, which is of course to talk about yourself?” 

"Nonsense," he said, "Everything about me is absolutely exquisite. I am a celestial being, after all."

She cocked her head at him, waiting. 

"But," he said, "What about -- other things about you that other people did?" 

She was baffled by that. Better than displeasure, at least. A pause, which he offered an expectant glance. "Okay. Well. I mean you know my mom and I have issues. You know. The child acting thing is, you know, lifelong trauma." 

"But you're such a good actor!" 

_Dr. Martin had said, “Well, if what he truly wants is to harrass you, then if he saw you liked having wings, or noticed they brought you joy in any way, wouldn’t he want them off as soon as possible?”_

"I appreciate it, but you can stop confusing my perky butt for good acting." 

"My dear detective," he said, "I can assure you that you possess both of them in spades and I am happy to investigate either at your pleasure." 

"So," she folded her arms across her chest and took a deep breath, "I know you and your dad have a lot of issues. Is that what you want to talk about?" 

_He had said, “Well, of course! Knowing I liked something he did would be the worst way to tell him to screw off! Now, how could I revel in this torture -- I mean -- his gift --”_

"Well," Oh no. They were here. They were here and she could tell, having let her arms fall back by her sides and was giving him the Deep Concern look, and his whole chest, and also, yes, that, all seized, and only with a last second clench did he not blow the surprise, "You see. Yes. You know that he's the most awful cheating unfair lying schemneing ---" 

She cleared her throat. 

"Anyway," he went to put the glass to his lips and it was nothing, "Do you mind if I get a refill?" 

"Lucifer," she said, and then she reached out and took his empty hand and the warmth of her hand bled into him, "Whatever is it is, whatever he did -- you're more than how he fucked up." 

_Dr. Martin had said, “One way to get a new perspective on something is to share it with someone who you value the opinions of.”_

"Much more, of course, but you know," he grit his teeth, "He likes to keep torturing me. But maybe if I'm not tortured by it, he'll find something else to do. Not like there could be anything more entertaining than picking on me, but maybe you never know --" .

She squeezed his hand. His mind went temporarily blank. Right. Yes. 

_He had been elated, at first. And he had said, “But what if she never talks to me again? He would love that.”_

"What he did -- it can be -- disturbing ---" 

"I look at corpses and get shot at for a living." 

"If you insist. You nosy little thing." 

_Dr. Martin had said, “Certainly it can’t be the worst thing you’ve shown to a mortal who still talks to you.”_

He unfolded his fingers from hers with great remorse. She pressed her lips together, dark concern in her eyes as he moved around her, closer to the door. More out of the range of any other views.

She turned to face him, still looking very puzzled indeed. He looked up at the ceiling, and then at the moon over her shoulder, and then he spread his wings wide, felt them flutter in a little breeze. It felt good, when they were out. His doing, for sure. 

The detective staggered back and then caught herself before she hit the floor. She took another step back, this time with both of her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with surprise and fear. 

He could feel Him laughing, at that moment. He could feel Him rolling his eyes and wondering just how stupid His wayward son was. 

He pulled the wings back in. 

“Put them back!” Chloe shouted, so he did. 

Then she took several small steps forward, as if she could startle him. One hand trembled near where the gun would be, had she been wearing it. The other was half-stretched out, fingers reaching, elbow bent. 

“They’re just wings, Detective,” he said, and he heard the nervous tremor in his voice, “Birds have them too. Airplanes. Flies. Icarus, though his were garbage.” 

“Lucifer,” she said, and then she was standing in front of him, and he could see the fear in her eyes, the way it etched itself into her perfect mouth that he really wanted to kiss at this exact moment and also knew that he could not move a single muscle, how it lived in the vein in her neck, “How did you hide these in your coat?” 

“They actually are in my soul, to be precise.” Nothing was worse than that moment where all he wanted was to tell the detective exactly what she wanted to hear and then had absolutely no idea what it was. Tell me what you desire, he thought, knowing how feeble it was. For a moment he made eye contact and tried to impress his power and yet again it failed, “I can take my shirt off and show you if you want.” 

She was angry. “If this all a plot for you to take your shirt off---” 

“It’s not! I promise!” 

A little simmer down. He pulled the wings back inside of him. Jacket first, then vest, then shirt. She didn’t even look at this perfectly toned body. That should be illegal, he thought. And yet -- 

“Wings,” she demanded, and they fluttered. 

She walked in a slow circle around him. He felt her fingers on his back. 

He was not sure anyone had ever touched his wings, in all the time he had had them. Even in hell, no demon - maybe Mazikeen - would have had the presumption to touch him. Of course such familiar touches were not acceptable for angels of his status. 

It tickled, a little. It certainly was not awful, that was for sure. He wasn’t sure it was good. But it wasn’t bad. 

“These are where you had those scars,” she whispered, behind him. Her fingers shook as she touched the bones that held the feathers together. There was a pause. “Wait. That case…. With those wings…and your…. container...” 

It was nauseating, to not be able to see her, to not be able to know what she wanted. 

“A different set of wings, I’m afraid,” he answered, trying to look over his shoulder at her. Just a pile of white feathers, “You see, they’re divine energy, and can be quite dangerous in human hands. So since it seemed like dad didn’t want them floating around, I burned them. But then they grew back.” He grit his teeth. 

“You burned them?” Horrified. “They’re beautiful!” 

“Yes, I suppose you’d think so if your asshole dad didn’t stick them into you as a loathsome reminder of his almighty power over you,” he snapped. Dr. Martin’s face popped into his head. “But! Enough about me and that shithead. What I actually want to know is, do you like them?” 

An unbelieving noise came from behind him. “What?” 

He turned, becuse it was rude to talk to someone who stood behind you, and also how was he supposed to know what to say with her there. She was still staring at him, at his wings, at his face, looking from one spot to another.

“What kind of question is that?” 

“A question I expect you to answer, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked it. It’s not really the time for rhetorical questions.” 

“Of course I like them,” she said, and then she stood close to him, touching his chest, “They’re beautiful, Lucifer. They look so real, so soft, when I look at them I just feel… like a light is shining down on me.” 

“They look so real because they are real,” he said, and gave her a flap, as if that would help somehow.” 

“You know,” she said, and she got that look on her face, like she didn’t believe him, and how could she not believe him, “Before Lucifer was the devil, he was an angel, and I guess angels have white beautiful wings. I mean, this is…. This is the next step in the gig, Lucifer. It’s really something.” 

“It’s not a gig, detective,” he snarled, taking a step back from her, “They really are my wings, stuck to me, that I used to have before I was cast from heaven, and now they’re back, and they are real, and if you cut them off you can see where they bleed.” 

“Why would you do that?” 

How could she understand, when she thought it was one mighty cosmic joke? Ha, cosmic. Ha, joke. 

“Because I hate them and they’re a reminder of dad and all his pearly gate sanctimonious bulllshit!” 

She was breathing harder now, angry at him, upset at something. She was going to open her mouth and say something else and he couldn’t let them happen. 

“If they were fake, do you think I could fly?” he asked, and he strode away toward the bannister, the idea growing in his head at that very moment. Flying was convincing. He wasn’t even sure he remembered how, but it would come to him. He would remember because he had to show her, and she had to like it, and that would show Him. 

“Lucifer, what are you----” she was behind him, and about to grab him by something, wings or shoulder, and he couldn’t let that happen. He had to make her believe, without his devil face. Maybe if she believed he’d get the devil face back. 

“I’m trying to open your eyes to the truth, detective, but you won’t listen! So I’ll just show you!” One foot on the chair, the next on the balcony railing. 

“LUCIFER, NO!” 

She grabbed at empty air. 

For a few seconds he was falling, hot wind on his face and through his feather, and then he flexed and instead was gliding downwards. Like riding a bike, he thought, and laughed. Maybe they could say like flying instead of like riding a bike. A twitch and he turned direction, and then with effort he flapped once, twice, three times, and gained altitude. Right. Yes. He had wings, and they worked, and he was flying, the hot air of Los Angeles easy under his wings. He could feel the currents rippling, and he slid up into a raft of upwards air. Another second of effort and he twisted into a loop, feeling his stomach drop. 

He landed back on the balcony, shattering the ashtray off one of the tables. 

Chloe was still staring at him. Her lip was trembling. 

“You see, detective? It is all true. Everything I’ve said. I never lie.” 

She didn’t speak. Confusion filled him. 

“Do you want to fly? Come on, it’s fun, I promise.” 

He took a step forward, matched by her step back. 

“Do you think I’ll drop you?” he said, almost incredulous. 

“No, it’s not -- you -- you flew- your wings ----” she had a mad look in her eye, breath heavy in her chest, pressing back again the glass door. “So it’s --- does it---” 

“I’ve tried to tell you this whole time!” 

“So then if you’re -- then --- your father is --- and …. Maze --” 

Something horrified came into her face. 

“She’s with Trixie right now,” she said, without a breath, “Take me there. Right now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could it hurt this much, to hold Chloe and fly across Los Angeles?

He poured himself a drink with shaking hands. Whiskey spilled onto the bar from the decanter; he left it there. A drip fell from his mouth when he took a sip, which he barely felt. 

He was still there, in the detective’s house. He was feeling, again, how she had looked at him, how she had looked at Mazikeen. 

When she had demanded they go to her house, he had gone to put his shirt on, to take the Corvette. She had grabbed his hand without any of the familiar affection and looked up at him with the hard intensity that she looked at suspects, at murderers. She had never looked at him that way. 

“Can you fly faster than you can drive?” 

“Well, there’s no traffic, to say the least.” 

How could it be so terrible, to hold her in his arms? He had looked into the Los Angeles sky and seen Dad laughing at him and taken off, because what else could he have done? 

How could it hurt this much, to hold Chloe and fly across Los Angeles? 

She hadn’t even noticed no one saw them land. She had staggered into the house and grabbed Trixie from the game she played with Maze so hard that the little thing had cried out in surprise. 

She had screamed “Go!” at them, at Maze. 

“Mazikeen,” he said, sharply, with the air of an order. She knew what it was, and she stared at him, and then at the detective, and then at Trixie. 

A big fucking joke, that’s what it was. Dr. Martin had given him shit advice, and for a few moments he considered crashing feet-first through that damn window and making her look into Chloe’s eyes at that moment. How could he make the doctor feel exactly what he felt? 

He drank instead, whiskey dribbling down his mouth and matching the spill already there. 

Mazikneen was talking. Instead he heard the sound of the detective’s heart, beating against his chest as he took them to her house. He heard the rattling fear as she pulled her spawnling away from them. He heard her terrified breathing. She had been scared of him, even when she had called his wings beautiful. She had been scared of the knowledge it was all true, even though he had never hidden it from her. 

“She believed me,” he said, voice low, shaking with his hand. There was silence. 

“She what?” Mazikeen said, changing direction mid-rant. 

“I showed her my wings,” he said. Another drink, and this time he managed not to spill it everywhere, “She believed me. Then she realized you were with her child. What you are.” 

There was a long pause as Mazikeen stared at him, the realization coming into her face. “You fucking idiot.” 

“Indeed.” 

Mazikeen threw up her hands, and then looked all around the penthouse. “Well,” she said, and huffed out a sigh, “I guess I’ll figure out how to clean up your mess again.” 

He heard the elevator. When he went to pour himself another drink, the glass slipped from his fingers and broke on the bar, bits of it landing on the floor. He drank from the decanter, and when he was done with that he polished off the rest of the bottle. 

** 

When Chloe walked into the penthouse, it seemed empty. The lights were dim. She caught sight of an empty decanter next to the bits of shattered glass. No blood, of course. Not from the devil. 

(ed notes: Something something she’s less alarmed about Trixie so now she’s going to tell lucifer it’s fucked but OK. )

“Lucifer?” She asked the air, trying to not feel so much unsettling deja vu. This is what it was like he had told her --- when she had seen -- when he had shown her -- 

When he flew. 

He really was the devil. Not the devil, though. She had said to Ella, _so, do you believe in the devil?_

Ella had said, _He kind of gets a bad rap, you know? I mean, who doesn’t rebel against their annoying dad? And punishing the damned for all eternity, like, come on, kind of out of proportion, don’t you think?_

He had a good side and a bad side, didn’t he? She had bad moods, bad times. Had said and done some stupid stuff. 

Still, angels. Do not be afraid, she thought, and forced back the laugh. 

She moved through the penthouse, making just enough noise that he could hear her, if he wanted to. 

“Lucifer?” she asked the empty penthouse again, “I’m here. I just want to talk.” 

She turned the corner and peeked into the bedroom.There was a lump in the blankets. Another step in, and she saw the top of a head of dark hair. 

“Lucifer?” Softer, this time. The lump didn’t move. Did angels sleep? Lucifer had been asleep sometimes. Was it a fake sleep? Something like meditation? Was him wearing this human guise meant he needed to sleep, in some way?

She kneeled next to the lump. Reached, with a trembling hand, to touch his shoulder. 

He recoiled. 

She took a breath he must have heard. A second, and then a third, and then, committing, she kicked off her shoes and sat on the side of the bed next to the still form of the devil. 

“I was scared,” she said, to her lap, looking at her fingers in her lap. “For Trixie, that if Maze said -- the things she said about torturing -- and --” Another breath, trying to calm himself, “-- But. You’re still the same Lucifer I’ve always known. And you -- you’re not just the devil, you’re an angel too. Everyone has good and bad. I’m still scared, but I’m trying, now. Because I know you’ve always been what you are, the person that you are. I hope you can help me try, help me… keep you, do this thing. So. I’m sorry I did what I did. I hope you understand.” 

“You’re scared of me,” Lucifer said, into his pile of blankets. He was unmoving. “Of what I am. Of what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next bit i guess? mopey bed lucifer i guess, chloe curled up behind him trying to tell him it's okay, him a blanket lump.

**Author's Note:**

> so lucifer flies chloe to trixie, and chloe basically pulls trixie and mazikeen apart, and then yells at them to go, and then lucifer mopes. but then she comes back and comforts him. they kiss, obv. she tries to accept him. it's hard. i feel like this is a probably a theme of a lot of lucifer fic.


End file.
